14 July : Storming the Bastille
by MsCongeniality
Summary: One day out of the year Martha Jones spent wandering the Earth and telling her story.


The streets of Paris were quiet. Not empty—the needs of life didn't stop because the world had changed. People still moved about, did their business, but they were a people under siege. They made transactions quickly and then hurried home to their families—what was left of their families anyway. The streets of Paris were quiet in a way they hadn't been in the past sixty years.

Martha Jones strode down the Avenue Montaigne. Not confidently, not recklessly, but somehow differently from the few Parisians around her; all of whom gave off a palpable air of wanting to be elsewhere, to be safe under cover. A flash of movement caught her eye, and a pair of Toclafane swooped past. She froze in her tracks, just as everybody in the street did; watching as the metallic creatures glided up to the next building, then through the shattered window of what looked to have been a high fashion boutique.

Horrible smashing sounds began to emanate from the building, but no screams—not this time. Then, a few moments later, the Toclafane smashed their way out of one of the remaining upper story windows and sailed off, rising high into the sky, presumably to continue their patrol elsewhere. None of the people on the street so much as turned their heads, but it was only once the pair of aliens had disappeared well beyond the rooftops that movement began once more, this time with a sense of renewed urgency.

Martha picked up her pace, ignoring any looks she got from passersby as she jogged; risking attention and noticeably checking the street signs at each corner. Finally, she turned into a smaller, dingier side street. Making her way quietly past shuttered windows and doors, she turned again down a cut between the buildings that hardly even qualified as an alleyway before stopping.

She breathed heavily. Not winded, but taking deep calming breaths as she scanned the walls of the small, darkened area. A single line creased her brow and Martha stepped deeper into the alley, pulling a small torch from her belt to better illuminate the stained brickwork.

She ran the light along the high walls and into the dark corners with no more success than she'd had the first time. Now, outright frowning, she peered down, as though the garbage-strewn pavement would explain to her where she had made a wrong turn in her path through the city.

As luck would have it, it did. The beam of light from her loosely held torch caught the edge of a chalk mark on the ground. Martha stepped closer, directing the beam more precisely and found the mark for her rendezvous point. She would be met behind or, more precisely, _beneath_ the cross of Lorraine.

Martha sealed the entrance behind her, and instantly the light of her torch seemed tiny and utterly ineffective against the vast blackness and cascade of white noise surrounding her. Fortunately, she came to solid footing quite quickly and had barely even begun to worry about which direction she should be heading when a lantern, far eclipsing her own feeble torch, flared blindingly not three feet away. It was followed by a voice in heavily accented English pitched to carry above the sounds of rushing water.

"You are Martha Jones?"

"Yeah," she replied, holding a hand up to shield her eyes. "And you're…Gaël, then?"

There was no immediate response, but the lantern was lowered. She could now make out the walls of the cavern-like space and a bit of the walkway they stood on, though she still had no more than a vague outline of the man who was her contact. The light turned away from her and shone brightly on one stained grey wall before focusing far down a long tunnel.

"This way. We will use the city beneath to reach our friends." He started walking, calling back over his shoulder as he moved. "For now, it is safer. The Toclafane think of the air and the streets, not the sewers and the catacombs. The authorities are not yet so cowed by the Master to give these passages away. At some point, we will be hunted, even here. But for now, they are the highway of the resistance."

Martha jogged a bit, catching up with the fading light and falling into step behind the shadowy figure. "Right, sewers it is."

The two of them walked some distance, making occasional turns that mirrored streets unfamiliar to Martha, who was armed with only her tourist's knowledge of the city above. At several points, they passed large confluences where the constant hum of rushing water roared to ear splitting levels, but beyond that their journey was undertaken in silence. It was only once they'd turned again, into one of the smaller, quieter tributaries that Martha took her guide by the elbow.

"Wait," she started, hesitantly. "Before we go up there, tell me what's been happening here. What has Paris been facing?"

He stopped and turned to face her, his face illuminated by the lantern for the first time. The upward cast of the shadows threw the seemingly normal features of his long face into sharp relief and his pale eyes shone in the light.

"The same as everywhere else, I expect," Gaël started. "First the Decimation, then reprisals. People are taking the curfews and work assignments seriously now, but we still have our moments."

"Moments," Martha shook her head, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Just today, in the Place de la Bastille, some former military cadets held an unauthorized gathering; a pointless show of drills and La Marseillaise." He made a sour face, then turned again and resumed walking.

Martha took a few quick steps to catch up to him and match his stride. "How do you figure it was pointless?"

Gaël turned back to her with a sour look. "If your duty is to France, there's not much you can do to protect her if you are dead."

She frowned again, briefly, as she absorbed his words. Then, a more contented expression smoothed her face and she looked up, watching his stony gaze as he looked towards the dim pathway before them.

"I think," she finally said. "That they met their duty head on and with honor. You don't think that the tale of cadets commemorating la Fête Nationale will spread? You don't think people will hear that story and find hope even in their fear?"

Gaël stopped again, looking down at Martha in stony silence.

"After all," she continued, "that's all I'm here to do. I'm here to tell a story."


End file.
